


at one with the night

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: (Obviously), Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, F/M, Mafia Slang, Mentions of Murky Misdeeds, Possessive Jon, Sexual Content, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 08:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24846535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: ‘Anyone else, she’d rather die than act this needy in front of. Grind them up beneath her stilettos, sway on off down the street. But this is Jon. He’s seen her at her weakest, her most willing — he’s wiped her own spit off her chin, then pushed his fingers back into her mouth when she moaned for more.’Summary: Jon and Sansa get a little side-tracked on the way to a family meeting. Mafia/mob au.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 40
Kudos: 136
Collections: JonsaKinks





	at one with the night

**Author's Note:**

> > This is actually part of a larger wip I have had knocking around in my drafts since November; but I think there is enough dirty talking/thinking in it to qualify for Day 1 of Jonsa Kink Week . . . maybe? 🔥

Midwinter, frost flowers on the window-glass, air so cold it hurts to breathe. Sansa coughs: curses the ice slicing at her lungs, looks down at the cigarette between her fingers — maybe it’s that she should be cursing, not the cold air. Shrugs. Lifts it to her lips and inhales, rolls her eyes in irritation.

There’s a guy working shapes into her neck. Probably thinks he’s getting her wet. These type of guys always do. Daddy telling them they’re peachy perfect soon as they’re born; Mama squeezing apple-cheeks, feeding them up, saying any girl be lucky to have them. Sansa rolls her eyes again. Horseshit. All of it.

“You like that?”

No, she doesn’t _like that_. Feels like someone’s little grandmother hasn’t got her teeth in: sloppy, sucking sounds that make her skin shrink away from the lips probing against it. The cigarette is burning down to her fingers now, and she is _bored_. Wraps a fist into the guy’s slicked-back locks, pulls him away from her.

“Enough,” she says as she tosses the cigarette over the balcony. “I gotta go.”

Little gleam, fingers reaching for her again. “Aw. Where you going? Party’s not even — ”

“Party’s over,” comes a voice at one with the night. “Get the fuck outta here.”

Voice at one with the night is right. Mm, and like the dark, the flashing neon city-glow, the blood in the street, the fucking polished-leather shoes that walk away from it — everyone knows that fucking voice, is familiar with it, or fearful of it.

Sansa inhales sharply.

 _Now_ she’s wet.

“Going,” says the guy slick as his greased hair, palms up. “Already gone, _capo_.”

She blinks at the shadows. “Jon?”

“Hey, bub.” Softer already; she can see the glint of his smile in the dark. “Boss sent me to get you. Family business.”

“I’ll just get my — ”

Something rustles: her jacket over his arm. “I got it, bub. You ready?”

“Ready.”

*

Been a while. Long time — really, really _long_ time — since she last saw him. Sansa heard he was off spring cleaning in the south: sorting passes, chasing shy on her father’s behalf. Ned Stark trusts Jon Snow with his life. Always has. Knows he does his job, does it well, never takes a cut bigger than he’s thrown. Jon Snow isn’t a man to eat alone. Never, ever.

Sansa looks out the window of the car, blushing now because she’s thinking of his mouth. That mouth right now clamped round a cigarette as he flourishes a match with a flick of his wrist. Shakes the flame off, heavy watch jangling against his cuff-link. Inhales some smoke, then lifts his hand to rub a thumb between his eyes, down the bridge of his nose. Glances at her, little lopsided smile.

“Go on,” he sighs. “Say it.”

“You shaved your head.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”

Lifts an eyebrow at him. “What the fuck you do that for?”

“You don’t like it, bub?”

“It’s patchy.”

Rolls his eyes, swish of his palm on the steering-wheel. “Blame Theon.”

“You let _Theon_ shave your head?”

Shrugs, smiles as the car swings. “He’s better now. His hand don’t shake so much.”

“He not drinking?”

“Not a lot.”

Her eyes narrow. “Blow?”

“Off it completely.”

She leans back in her seat. “That’s good.” Glances at him. “How’d you manage it?”

“Your father locked him up. Penthouse on the east-side.” Sinks his hand onto the gear-stick, wraps his fist round it as he slides up a notch. “Fun few weeks for me — babysitting on the fucking balcony.”

“Like you used to babysit me?”

He shakes his head, laughs without looking at her. “Get that look out your eye.”

“What look?”

Engine purrs as they spin along. “You _know_ what look, Sansa Stark.” Now he glances over at her, thumb trailing the plump swell of his lower lip. “Besides — was you that did the sitting.”

“Stop it,” she says as coolly-sarcastic as she can manage. “You’ll make me blush.”

“Aw, I like you with pink cheeks.”

It is _obscene_ , the faux-innocence of that sentence in his mouth. Like crushed blackberries oozing dripping _collecting_ hot syrupy juice all over her skin, pooling between her thighs. Her spine arches off the seat-back slightly; her hips roll on the leather—

(soft silk on her wrists, his palm landing hard enough to make her elbows fold underneath her, cheek flat to the bed, his mouth at her ear, hand in her hair, _I told you to count_ , back arching up, _o-o-otto_ , tongue tangled tied, so full of his fingers, fucked, filled, _no-oh!-ve_ )

—and the air’s shifted in the car. Cigarette is gone, fire stays flaring. He catches every little movement of her body, she can tell — and she has never wanted to be naked so badly in her life. Her wrists ache for silk; her skin sings to sting, _simmer_.

“Remember the first time I asked you to do that?”

“Course I remember.” His voice is lower now: rumbly, chest-deep, make that little _cugine_ throw himself off that fucking balcony. Only makes her wetter. “Wake up hard thinking about it sometimes.”

Tries to make her moan into a word: breathy, reedy, mildly coherent. “Really?”

“ _Really_ , bub.”

Laughter in his voice, but she’s done with joking. No time to play. Party’s over. She’s hot and hungry and there’s a hard enough thrumming in her panties to rival every one of the vibrators in her bedside drawer cranked high maxed-out making her see stars. Shifts in her seat, thighs bowing wide and if his hand isn’t slipped up between them in a fucking _second_ she will scream.

“Pull over.”

His fingers tighten on the steering-wheel. “What?”

“Pull. Over.”

“Your father — ”

“ — can fucking wait,” she thunders. “Pull _over_ , Jon.”

Tight white-knuckled grip, tyres screech. Sansa is in his lap before he’s even shut off the engine. Fucking she-wolf ready to drink the moon and he’s floundering beneath her like a trapped doe for half a second — then she sees the wolf glint back to life in his eyes, same second as his hand wraps round her throat, wrings the moan right out of it.

*

Not so bossy now. Because his hand being there means she can melt for the first time in months. No tough-guy act here, now; she doesn’t _need_ it. No propping up the fear of the family every club she enters, every party, every little hard-nosed chat in the street. Her shoulders sag and her thighs sink wider and she’s grinding against his belt-buckle, trying to get lower, get what she wants, what she _needs_ —

“ _Jon_.”

—and she’s growling it because his other hand is at her hip, arm wrapped round the small of her back, keeping her lifted just enough that she _can’t_ get what she wants. Growls at him again; he bites at the fingertips she’s raking down through his beard. Smiles that lopsided little smirk, and her growl turns into a moan. He licks his lips, smile pulling wider.

“What you want, huh?” he murmurs: all crooning, comforting. “Tell me what you want, little mama.”

Her eyebrows bow up toward her hairline as she makes another sound — garbled, shapeless — because speech is gone and he hasn’t called her _that_ since the last time they were together.

Remembers it again in a white-hot flash: flesh clapping, his palm turning soft skin stinging—

(she couldn’t sit down the next day: ass like a sunset, _simmering_ every time he stroked it, then spanked it, made her moan, moan, _more, you like that? again, again, please, please_ , till she’d run out of numbers to stutter, shout)

—his fingers pressed into her pussy, marking it his with every little crook, ripple, flutter that turned her to water, dust, fucking _air_.

“Mmm.” Sound is long and drawn-out as her reverie; her head rolling as she bites at her lip. “Want your fingers. Your cock. Want _you_ , Jonny — you.”

Nickname doesn’t soften him. “Funny way of showing it, bub.” Lowers her with his hand on her hip for a heartbeat: one glancing roll against his crotch, then he’s snatched her back up even as she whines. “No call, no nothing. Gone for months and when I come back I find you letting Petey’s boy get at your neck.”

“He’s a prick,” she whimpers. “I cut it off with him.”

Thumb pressing against her voicebox. “You telling me he was kissing at what’s mine, then?”

“Yours,” she manages to grit out. “I’m always yours, _capo_.”

“I should kill him for that.”

Shiver crackles down her spine, laps at the small of her back. “He’s nothing.” Not icy, that shiver — _hot_ — she’s burning up, paper over a flame, moth with singed wings shuffling back for more. “But they can’t get to thinking I’m waiting out for someone.” His lips are right _there_ all bowed soft beneath his beard and she wants them, _wants_ them. “Have to give Papa something to talk about.”

“That boy comes near you again,” he whispers, nose brushing at her own now. “I’ll give them all something to fucking talk about.”

“ _Jon_.”

It’s weak now: the warble in her throat. Anyone else, she’d rather die than act this needy in front of. Grind them up beneath her stilettos, sway on off down the street. But this is Jon. He’s seen her at her weakest, her most willing — he’s wiped her own spit off her chin, then pushed his fingers back into her mouth when she moaned for more.

“I know what you want,” he murmurs now. “Mm, _principessa_ , I know what you want.”

She finds a bit of fire, croaks it up to her tongue. “You going to give it to me, Jonny?”

“We got ten minutes.” That lopsided little smile again, pressed up beneath her jawbone. She moans. “Ten minutes till your father rings me up. Rips my ear off for being late.” Nibbling at her lobe now; she cries out as he twines his fingers into her hair, pulls her head sharply back to meet his shimmering stare. “I’m gonna give you as much as you can take.”

Manages to whisper—

“ _Dammelo tutto_.”

—but his hand is already slipped up between her thighs and the leather of the headrest is soon pock-marked by the savagery of a she-wolf’s talons, _teeth_.

*

They pull up in the street ten minutes later. Sansa’s just about fixed her hair, the lipstick trailed halfway across her cheek. Jon is as calm and composed as ever, palms swishing on the steering-wheel as he straightens the car up, switches off the engine. He runs a hand back over the ink-dark hair cropped close to his head, then catches up the fingers she’s pressing to his nape, kisses the tips of them: one by one.

“I’m keeping these.”

Dreamily, she flicks her gaze from his mouth to the silk he’s shaking. Her eyes widen instantly; nails turning nipping on his lips. He smiles — laughs. Her nostrils flare, but she finds she’s laughing, too, spluttering her words:

“You’re going to let me sit in a family meeting with no fucking panties on?”

“Mm,” he rumbles, bites his lip. “I’m gonna be jealous of your chair.”

Sansa taps a palm to the back of his head. “ _Vaffanculo_.”

“You’ll be doing that later.”

Hand on her throat again, the lightest brush of his lips against her own. “Mmm.” Loosens the fist she’s got on his tie, smooths it down. “You’re lucky that’s true.” Leans back, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, mirrors the kiss-blown smile he’s shooting at her as he tucks her panties into his jacket-pocket. “You ready?”

“Ready, bub.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> There has been a lovely flurry of mob au fics in the tag lately and, whilst the larger wip that this forms a part of may never see the light of day, I thought I’d add my own humble offering to that holy shrine for kink week day 1 tings. Some writers go far-out with dirty talk and I love to read that as much as anyone else; but when I am writing it myself my love of implicitness and purple-prose takes over and I fail epically at it, I am sorry! Sorry, too, to any and all Italian readers for utterly butchering your beautiful language and stealing bits of it (little basic translations listed below) like a greedy goblin and blending it with mafia speak to thread into this work. I couldn’t help myself! Anyway, thank you for reading if you did and feel free to validate me with words or curses I will bask in the sunshine of your comments like a snake on a rock. Yes, I will. ❤️
> 
>  **translations** : _capo_ [captain/crew-leader] _cugine_ [unmade youngster] _principessa_ [princess] _dammelo tutto_ [give me all of it] _vaffanculo_ [fuck you].


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